What Little Boys Are Made Of
by Emrys1
Summary: How far is Dean willing to go to keep Sam protected? It's a wee!Chesters fic, folks!


**A/N****: Hey! Guess what? I wrote a wee!Chester fic!!! I think I'm okay without the warnings, but there's mention made of child prostitution here…nothing explicit. Oh, and yeah, there are language issues as usual.**

What Little Boys Are Made Of

Dean can't remember the last time they stayed in a place that was worse. He longs for the sweeping landscapes and the wide skies of the mid-Western countryside, because this, this city-living is for shit.

The air in the confining room smells like urine, sour and toxic. The air-conditioner does little to cool the place and mostly succeeds in pushing around the particles of filth that abound. Not even the water is clean, and its faint sulfurous taste is both frightening and insulting.

But the worst, the most offensive thing to bear, is the red light that blinks on and off outside the window. It blinks on and off, proclaiming the cheap hotel's presence in too-large letters that shine and burn on Dean's retinas, even when he draws the blinds and keeps his eyes firmly closed. It blinks on and off and bathes the room in alternating patterns of blood red and deep pitch.

The sign's electrical buzzing sets Dean's teeth on edge. The drone of voltage is just a tiny sound, but it's also insidious in its own obvious way. He spends long periods of time contemplating whether or not it would be worth it to stab his eardrums through with pencils just to make the cacophonous, little noise end.

The fact that he has to keep his senses sharp does nothing to dispel the irritation brought on by the humming sign. He's in charge, so he's not even allowed the thought that no one is going to come through an open window on the eighth floor, the floor on which this shit-hole of a hotel room is found. No, he's a Winchester, a hunter's son, and neither identity allows him false refuge.

Because Dean knows that the things capable of reaching and entering the eighth floor of this building are too scary to allow for even the passing thought of comfort.

It was obvious even to Dean, that their father didn't want to leave them on their own. But he went off anyway, leaving Dean with his eight-year old, kid brother, a firm order to stay in the room, and the assurances that he would be back in the morning.

That had been two days ago.

It wasn't an extraordinarily long time for John Winchester to be away from his sons, even if the extra day and a half is unplanned. A hunt, an important one apparently, brought them to this city, and Dean was expecting to be ditched. It was summer, so school wasn't a suitable baby-sitting option for Sam. Besides, this was a city. No matter how much Dean might long for a hunt, no matter how much he despised being crammed up in this god-awful room, he would _never_ leave Sammy to face the frustrations of boredom and stifling, summer confinement on his own.

Right now, Sam's on one of the musty beds watching some cartoon that looks sort of interesting. Dean, almost craving the camaraderie of shared interest and sibling affection, wants to join him.

But it's out of the question, because there is no way in hell Dean's going to give into a gut-deep wish if it threatens to make his little brother see him as even a little needy, a little weak. He'd rather be lonely. He'd rather look confident and in control. No need to clue Sammy in on how awful the situation is.

Besides, he has to fix them lunch.

oOo

Three days over due, and now it's Friday evening. In between trying to block out the offensive hotel sign and getting Sammy to bed, Dean's watching an episode of Quantum Leap. He likes the program, especially Al. Sammy gives him a hard time whenever the show is on though, because he can't stop fixating on the fact that he shares first names with Doctor Beckett.

"Dean, don't you think it's neat? I mean maybe I could do that when—"

"Sam, get back into the bathroom and finish brushing your teeth! I'm not going to say it again!" Dean says. He's not sure what he'll do if Sam doesn't listen, but he's confident that he'll figure something out. He's got more than enough imagination for that.

Luckily though, Sam doesn't test him. Just makes a face and stomps back into the bathroom with his clodhopper feet.

After a minute or two, Sam comes back into the main room. His expression is one of faint concern tinged with strong disgust.

"Dean, there's something green growing on the outside of the bathtub. It looks sort of toxic."

"I'll clean it up after you get to bed," Dean informs his charge.

"Dean, do you suppose that the water tastes like that because a demon used to live here? Maybe it left that green goo to get us. Maybe we should try calling Dad again," Sam suggests.

Dean feels a stab of frustration brought on by the situation. He knows that there's no demon, at least he's pretty sure there isn't. But he's worried about Dad and so's Sam. All afternoon, Sam's been searching for excuses to call their father. Dean hasn't had the heart to tell him that he's tried to do just that three times already, but the number their dad left with them is disconnected. In a sudden fit of worry, Dean even tried to call Pastor Jim, but the good father never answered the phone. Dean didn't leave a message on the man's answering machine though, because his father being late wasn't really an emergency. He doesn't want to be caught over-reacting, and their dad would tan his hide for sure if he asked an outsider for help when it wasn't entirely necessary.

"There's no demon," he says, and pulls down the worn bedcovers. "Get in bed. It's late."

Sam pulls a face, but he listens anyway. Dean draws the sheet up over the kid's shoulders but leaves the blankets at the foot of the bed. It's still warm in the room, but Sam's never been able to sleep without something covering him.

"Wake me up if you need anything," Dean says.

"'Kay, Dean. 'Night," Sam says sleepily.

And then Sam's sound asleep, and Dean's alone with his thoughts.

The room is bathed red and black and red and black. Within the shimmying light, the television flickers and glows.

oOo

They ran out of food on Saturday morning, and it's late Sunday afternoon now. Dean saw this coming but hoped their father would be home before having to deal with it. He was obviously deluding himself, but that's over now. He calls Pastor Jim again after Sam complains that he's hungry. There's still no answer, and this time, after a brief hesitation, Dean leaves a message. He wants to call someone else, but there isn't anyone. John Winchester is too strong-headed to make many friends, and half of those he has want to shoot him or at least smash his face in with their fists. The other half are unknown to Dean, so he has no way to contact them even if he wants to.

He calls the contact number their father gave him, but it's still only a recorded voice that answers and dispassionately explains that the number has been disconnected. He slams the phone down in a sudden fit of anger and stares at it while he mulls over their options.

"Dean?"

It's Sam, and he's looking scared. Looking like a little kid who's hungry and who doesn't belong in this piss-poor situation.

"Don't worry, Sammy. Everything's going to be fine," Dean says. And because he says it, Sam believes it. Mostly.

Making a decision, Dean stands up a little too quickly. He has to place a hand against a wall to steady himself as a wave of dizziness sweeps over him. He's hungry too and hasn't actually eaten since Friday morning, because he was trying to extend their resources for Sammy. All he's had for two days is the sulfurous water that both scares and nauseates him.

"Dean?"

Sam's beside him quicker than Dean can register it. His little brother reaches up and clasps his arm.

"Dean, you okay?" Sam asks, and now the kid's practically panicked.

Dean shrugs off Sam's hand.

"Don't be such a girl, Sam. I'm just a little tired is all," Dean says with forced irritation. It's a lame response, but it's all his deprived brain can come up with.

"Maybe you should take a nap," Sam suggests, trying to be helpful.

"I said I was a little tired. That doesn't mean that I'm ready for the old folks' home," Dean says sharply. His head suddenly clears, and he pushes away from the wall. "Geez, a nap! You're such an idiot!"

Dean's aware that his reaction isn't completely on par with his normal techniques of distraction, because it's obvious that Sam's confused as to whether he should be worried or angry. To clarify things, Dean pushes the kid out of the way and walks around the bed to the closet. He glances up just in time to catch Sam stick his tongue out at him and figures that he's succeeded in sparing his little brother any further feelings of concern.

He blatantly ignores the insult of Sam's protruding tongue, opens the closet door, then pulls out their dad's bag and unzips it without hesitation.

"Dad says we're not supposed to go through his stuff," Sam petulantly says from where he's planted himself on his bed.

"What do you care?" Dean throws the words over his shoulder and then chooses to ignore his brother.

Instead, he searches through the pockets of the few clothes their father left behind. The first pair of jeans yields nothing, as does the second, and Dean's starting to feel the stirrings of utter desperation as he turns his efforts to the bottom of the bag. Luck's on their side, because stuffed in one corner is a fiver. Five whole dollars, and Dean wants to weep with relief.

He clutches the crumpled bill in his hand and silently thanks their missing father for his uncharacteristic bout of carelessness. Five dollars isn't much, but Dean knows how to stretch a dollar thin. The money will get them through another day, at least.

"C'mon, Sammy. We're going out."

Sam scrambles off the bed, and his expression is one of amazement coupled with the stirrings of shared mischief.

"We're going out?" he asks. Dean notes that Sam's careful not to mention their father's commands.

"Yeah," he says, as his stomach roils with the resolution that has forced him into disobeying orders.

He's just glad that it's still a little too early for the flickering hotel sign to mock his failure.

oOo

There's a small market right down the street; Dean knows because he saw it on their way into the city. He and Sammy step out onto the busy sidewalk, and Dean feels the nervousness that country boys experience when forced into unknown metropolitan environments. He pushes the uncomfortable feeling down and grabs his brother's hand.

"C'mon, let's go," he says with authority. Sam stumbles over his own feet as Dean pulls him in an unexpected direction.

"Hey!" Sam yells, affronted.

"Keep up and stay close," Dean says in response. The city air smells worse outside than it did in the hotel room, and he makes a concerted attempt not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

They make it to the market without incident and with only a few, uninterested looks thrown in their direction. Dean breathes a sigh of relief when he enters the store, because even though it's a temporary refuge, it's safer than being outside.

There's an Asian lady behind the counter who looks at them strangely and says something sharp-edged and high-toned in her native language. Dean ignores her and Sam seems to be oblivious to her. Dean grasps the five-dollar bill tightly in his fist and then moves to the back of the market to find what he needs. He pulls on Sammy's hand and the kid, whose eyes are on the paperback books held in a squeaky, wire shelf contraption that moves in circles, is pulled along again.

"Dean, I want to see—"

"C'mon, Sam. We need to hurry."

Sam doesn't say anything, but it's clear he's not happy. Dean understands why. After three days stuck in that awful room, he also wants to prolong this time outside. But no matter how hard he tries, he can't forget what happened the last time he gave into such temptations. So, with memories of a shtriga whispering in his mind, he tightens his grip on his little brother's hand and moves faster.

He buys a package of bologna and a loaf of bread. At the counter, Sam stares greedily at a candy bar, and Dean's got just enough money left over to get it for him. Sam smiles broadly when it's handed over, rips open the wrapper and greedily gobbles the chocolate down. Dean feels affection for his brother wrap around him, and he pats Sam's head in a clumsy attempt to demonstrate his feelings. Sam looks up, and this time his smile is smeared with melted chocolate.

"Thanks, Dean."

"No problem," he says, and returns the smile.

The woman behind the counter says something that sounds like gibberish, but which is probably the equivalent to, "Get the hell out." Dean nods politely in her direction and then exits the store, brother in tow.

"Dean, do we have to go back right away?" Sam asks, licking his chocolate coated fingers and tripping over his elephant feet. The sound of his tennis shoes slapping against the cement sidewalk echoes within the tight corridor of tall buildings through which they are traveling. It makes Dean want to laugh and cry at the same time.

"No, Sam. You know we need to get back," Dean says, while steadying the klutz with one hand and balancing the small bag of groceries with the other.

"Why?"

"'Cause Dad doesn't want us out."

"Why do we always have to do what he says?"

"Because he's our dad, Sammy."

"Well, he's not here. And it's a stupid rule, Dean. How can he expect us to stay cooped up in that room all this time? It's too much."

Right now, Dean thinks of the shtriga again. Later, many years later on a dark day when Sam storms out and goes away from them, Dean will recognize this conversation as the beginning of an inevitable but unpredicted ending.

"Besides," Sam continues his tirade in a voice that is suddenly strident, "we're out now, and we aren't supposed to be. Why can't we just stay out a little longer?"

"Just shut up, Sam. We're going back."

"But, Dean—"

"I said shut up, Sammy!" Dean yells a little too loudly, and people are looking at them now. The sky is darkening with the blush of an early summertime evening, and he regrets not doing the shopping earlier in the day. With effort and a mental count to ten, he pushes down his irritation. He's hungry, and he knows that Sam is too; they've also been stuck together in close quarters for too long, and it's starting to get on both of their nerves.

"C'mon, Sam," he says, injecting gentleness into his tone. "Let's get back and eat something."

He sees the resentment empty from Sam's face, and the goofy grin from before returns.

"'Kay, Dean. Sorry," the goob says.

Dean smiles wistfully and guides them back to the hotel.

oOo

In the growing glow of the hotel light that is eight stories above them, Dean pauses. He glances up at the small piece of sky that he is able to see between tall buildings and wants to stay outside for just a little while longer, despite the stink and the strangeness of the city.

The memory of the shtriga stirs again, and he's about to force himself back into the dungeon that is their current home when Sam pulls on his hand.

"Dean, who're those kids over there?" Sam asks, innocently pointing in the direction of some boys who are slinking across the street.

Dean's seen boys like these before; they're in every city he's ever been to. They're always easy to spot, especially in the parts of town where the Winchesters can afford to stay. Rangy and desperate looking, they wear clothes that are too tight and take drives with men in expensive cars.

In a vague, disconnected way, Dean knows that these boys are synonymous with sex. He's not sure of the mechanics of it, but he knows that money is involved somehow. He's seen the wads of bills that the careless ones flaunt after coming back from the car rides.

He can't quite understand why it's only ever men that they drive away with and isn't sure that he really wants to know the reasons.

He'd understand more, maybe, if he were allowed to talk to these boys, but he's been strictly forbidden from doing so. In John Winchester's book, this rule is pretty high up on the list.

"Nobody, Sammy," Dean says in answer to Sam's question. And then, because the youngest Winchester is a little too clever for his own good he adds, "You just mind your own business and don't worry about 'em."

"Okay, Dean," Sam says. Now that Dean's back in the kid's good graces, he knows that Sam will do anything he says. At least for a little while.

Dean smiles, and the two of them walk into the hotel together. As he enters the building that currently feels like a prison to him, Dean thinks about the measly loaf of bread and the package of bologna in the bag he's carrying. He glances back once, briefly, at the boys strutting across the street and feels slightly nauseous. Returning back to the hotel room could account for his discomfort, but it doesn't, not really.

And Dean's not entirely sure what does.

oOo

By Monday evening, Dean realizes that the bread and bologna aren't going to last long, not when Sammy eats like a goddamned horse. Stupid jerk is going to be taller than Dean by the time he's ten.

He shoves this unpleasant thought aside, but it's only replaced by others that are even more unpleasant. Replaced by thoughts that murmur and make him nervous. Thoughts that buzz in time with the exasperating hotel sign and remind him that he's tried to call Dad three times during the day, each with no result. Thoughts that remind him that calling Pastor Jim was still met with the unwelcome response of an answering machine. And now Dean's not only worried about Sammy, but about his father and the pastor as well.

He hasn't felt quite so alone in a very long time.

Currently he's looking out the window, down at the boys who are across the street. He watches as they are picked up by men and returned, seemingly none the worse for wear.

"Dean?" Sam asks with hesitation tingeing his voice.

"Huh?" Dean responds, without taking his eyes off the boys outside.

"Dean, did you eat today?" Sam asks.

The worry is back in Sam's voice, and it's just not supposed to be there. Dean turns his face away from the street below to concentrate on making his baby brother feel all right again.

"Yeah, yeah, Sammy. I ate earlier," he says. It's a lie, but he's not about to let his kid brother know that he's holding back from eating again so that there's enough for the eight-year old.

Sam doesn't look convinced, so Dean decides to distract him with a question he knows the answer to.

"You hungry, Sam? I'll make you a sandwich."

Sam seems to consider this question carefully; he bites his lip a few times and then his fingernails. Dean knows the kid's smart and wonders when the jerk is going to start seeing through his big brother's distractions. When that time comes, Dean's life is going to get substantially harder.

But luckily, that time's not now.

"Yeah. Yeah, Dean. I'm sorta hungry," Sam admits.

Dean reaches forward and ruffles Sam's hair.

"How's bologna sound to you?" he asks, with a wry smile twisting his face.

Sam expression is one of mutual irony.

"Delicious," he announces, and his stomach rumbles loudly.

Dean finds it in himself to laugh a little bit, but the bright sound dies on his lips as he takes one last, long look at the boys outside on the nighttime street.

oOo

Sometime in the middle of Wednesday night, Sam cries in his sleep, and Dean is again forced to consider making an unhappy, but possibly necessary, decision. He's been staring at the boys walking the streets in front of the hotel for quite some time now, all the while thinking furiously. His shoulder is scratched up from where he's been itching the skin in an unconscious effort to relieve stress.

He sighs heavily and absently scratches his shoulder again before dizzily wandering to Sam's bedside. Once there, he rubs the distressed boy's back, strokes his hair, and does all the usual things that settle his little brother back into sleep.

None of his tricks are working this time though, because Sam rolls over, opens his eyes, and blearily peers up at Dean.

"'M hungry, Dean," Sam murmurs, still mostly asleep.

With his brother's muttered words, Dean feels a wave of exhaustion pass over him. His stomach is a gnawing monster that he can't possibly ignore for much longer. And he's overwhelmed by the knowledge that Sam is probably feeling the same aching hunger, but there's nothing that can be done about it. Guilt batters him, because he's too aware of how badly he's doing his job; how he's not taking care of Sam.

"You need to rest, Sam. Save your energy," Dean instructs, and this isn't a lie, especially if the way Dean's feeling is any indication of how Sam is.

"Alright, Dean," Sam grudgingly says. He's almost instantly asleep again the moment he rolls back over onto his side.

Dean pulls the ratty blankets up over Sam's shoulders but doesn't return to the window or go to his own bed. Instead, he sits next to his sleeping brother and gently strokes the too long curls on the kid's head. As he offers comfort to Sam, he considers that maybe a little conversation is in order; a forbidden conversation with those boys out there on the street. He thinks that maybe Sammy's right, and they can't afford to listen to their vanished father right now.

Dean wonders if desperation is plastered all over his face as deeply as it is on the street kids. He wonders if it's wrong to disobey a father when the situation is dire, and the rules aren't working anymore.

Because he knows, _knows_, that there's money—maybe a lot of it—to be gained in the company of those other desperate boys. Knows, because he's always been a bright kid, hell-bent on survival.

So he thinks, and wonders, and knows as he comforts a sleeping child. Thinks, and wonders, and decides as the mocking hotel sign slowly morphs into red-black menace.

oOo

"Stay here, Sammy," Dean says as he pulls his jacket on over a t-shirt that's a little too small for him. The world around him is a blur of slow starvation, and he can barely move without stumbling. It occurs to him that if things work out the way he's planned them, he'll be at the mercy of a complete stranger because he sure as hell isn't in any condition to take on a flea not to mention some full-grown ogre of a guy.

Clenching his jaw and closing his eyes, he resolutely pushes _that _thought away. Nausea is a tight ball in his stomach that momentarily replaces the clawing creature that's been living in his gut for some time now, and he just wants this nightmare to end. As soon as possible. Right now.

"Where're you going, Dean?" Sam asks. There's a wobble in the kid's voice that has Dean mildly alarmed, but he's too fatigued to do much about it.

"Goin' out," Dean says, and waves in the general direction of the window and the nighttime sky.

Suddenly Sam's latched onto him, arms encircled around his waist, large, puppy, eyes brimming with tears.

"No, Dean. You don't have to. Dad'll be back soon. Stay here with me. Don't go out there." The words are a tumble of worry and fear, and Dean still doesn't know what to do about them or how it is that Sam's sensing that something _wrong_ is going on. All he knows is that any other option is a bad one right now, and this is the only one that's going to see Sammy through to a brighter side.

"Sam, it's all right," he says. He's been saying that a lot lately, and yet things still aren't all right. And really, it doesn't look like they're going to get better anytime soon.

"Dean, please. Don't leave me here all alone. You're not supposed to. Dad said so," Sam pleads, and he's so obviously on the verge of sobbing that Dean bends down and hugs him.

"It's okay, I promise, Sam. I'm just going to be outside. Just lock the door when I leave, and don't let anyone in who's not me," he says, then adds, "or Dad."

Sam starts crying, and clutches Dean tightly. Dean fights his own fear and wooziness and manages to slowly pry his little brother's arms off.

He makes a relatively fast move toward the door and has it opened and then closed behind him before Sam can get at him again. He locks the door behind him, and can't help but hear Sam's small body flinging itself against the barrier that is now between them.

"Dean!" Sam yells in a feral, gut-wrenching way.

Dean steps away from the door and heads toward the stairwell that will lead to the street below.

oOo

He's standing on the street corner outside the hotel, trying not to look up at the eighth floor to their room where Sammy is. He's standing with the other boys, and he's struggling to look like he belongs even though everything inside him is screaming that he doesn't.

He's the new kid, and he knows what that means, knows what others will do to survive. So when the boys taunt him, he ignores them. But when one steps too close and swaggers threateningly, he shows them that he's a hunter's son.

They stay clear of him after that, and he catches what might be grudging respect on a few of their faces when he chances quick glimpses at them. He's not really interested in what they think of him, but he'd like to talk to them so that they can clue him into what he's doing. He wants one of them to tell him what to do, because he really doesn't know anymore.

He decides to give it a few minutes, give himself some time to settle down. He shoves his hands in his pockets, because they're shaking wildly. The sound of his rapid heartbeat echoes in his head, and as the edges of his world grays, he wonders if he's finally going to pass out from the hunger. But then one of the wilder kids steps forward again, and he stubbornly pushes away the fuzziness.

The worst thing he could do right now is show weakness. He can't let them know how scared and worn out he is. So he glares at the teenager who is looking too eager for a fight even with the display of strength Dean showed earlier, and the jerk backs off. Dean smirks at the little bit of fear he sees in the other boy's face.

He's suddenly cold despite the heat of the summer evening. He stalks up and down the sidewalk in the hope of restoring some level of warmth to his body, but it's not working. He continues to walk anyway in an unconscious attempt to level off his anxiousness.

A low car, a yellow sedan, sidles up beside him. It's suddenly even colder, and he shivers before stepping forward and cautiously peering into the passenger window in the same way he's seen the other boys doing. He opens his mouth to speak but doesn't know what to say.

The man inside the car grins in an unpleasant way. Even in the dim light, Dean can tell that the guy's teeth are tobacco stained and crooked. There's a glint in the man's eyes that's almost demonic.

He's the scariest thing Dean's ever seen in his life.

"Lookin' for a ride, kid?" the guy asks in a suggestive voice that rolls like black oil through the air. Alarmed, Dean takes a step away from the car. But as dizziness lays into him, he's forced to grip the passenger door. His hands immediately feel contaminated, and the wild thing in his stomach tries to claw its way out. Again, he thinks about how the same monster sits in Sammy's stomach, and it's this awareness that gives him the strength to straighten up and nod to the freak in the car.

"Good. Good, kid," the guy says with that thick and oozing voice. He leans over the wide car and opens the door for Dean.

Dean's bladder is suddenly and unbearably full. At the same time, his mouth is unaccountably dry and tastes like the sulfur water he's been drinking for a week. He tries his best to ignore these minor discomforts as he reaches for the door. He takes a step forward, and the guy's grin broadens until it's practically reptilian.

"DEAN!"

The voice is a whip-crack of command that has Dean immediately turning around and away from the open car door.

"Dad?" he asks in a thin voice, as his father steps out of the warm summer night and something in the world abruptly shifts and is normal again.

"Do we have a problem, Dean?" his dad asks sternly, and eyes the yellow sedan meaningfully.

"N-no, Dad. No problem," Dean stutters, but he's only answering out of habit. In fact, there's a pretty good chance that a problem is exactly what they have, because the man in the car is reaching toward him, stretching out to grab his arm and pull him inside. But Dean's so dumbstruck by his father's presence that he can't budge even to defend himself.

John moves so fast, Dean is reminded of a tiger he once saw attacking a gazelle on a nature program. It's as if his dad is liquid fury, and as he passes Dean to slam the car door closed and grabs the freak's hand in a crushing grip, Dean feels small and unworthy, but protected all the same.

John says something—Dean doesn't know what—and the guy takes off with a pealing of tires that could be a display of either anger or fear. Dean doesn't care which it is, because the only thing that's important is that his dad is here. Here. Right now. Right here and right now, and things are as okay as they've ever been before.

John turns to face his son, and Dean can't read his expression because it's changing so fast. He thinks he sees anger and fear, but then it's all replaced by something that may be a deep sorrow.

"Dean, what's going on?" John asks.

And then, because he's just been so desperate, so afraid, and so worried about Sam, Dean wordlessly rushes forward and snakes an arm around his father's waist. He buries his face in John's shoulder, seeking comfort. He finds it in the familiar aromas of strong whisky, dark earth, and smoked bones which make up John Winchester's signature scent.

It takes him a while to realize that his dad is stroking his hair and telling him about the hunt.

"Fucking fairies tricked me," John mutters so that only Dean can hear him.

Dean's shocked for a moment, because he can't believe that this entire nightmare has been about fairies. Fairies, for Christ's sake! He's not sure he can stand it as his stomach cramps with hunger. Frustration builds and suddenly there's the stinging pressure of moisture behind his eyes and a crushing ache in his throat. He's barely, _barely_ able to force his emotion and pain down and away.

But somehow he manages, because when he steps away from his dad, he doesn't even have to wipe at his eyes.

Not once.

"They threw water in my face, and I ended up swallowing some accidentally," John reports with mild irritation.

Still feeling the remnants of that distracting burn behind his eyes, Dean nods. Every hunter knows that you never eat or drink anything touched by a fairy's hands. It empowered them in dangerous ways, allowed them access to a person's mind and will.

It even gave them a way to manipulate a person's perspective of time.

"Felt like only a few hours, Dean. You guys okay? It's been a week," John asks, with no remorse in his tone.

"Fine. We're fine," Dean says. He sees the Impala parked across the street and wonders how he could have missed its gentle rumble when his father drove it through the city traffic.

"You sure?' John asks again, and Dean knows it's the only hint of concern that his dad is apt to give.

"Yeah, yeah, Dad. We're good," he says.

His father stares searchingly at Dean only for a moment, trying to flush out what he knows is an untruth. But this is a game that Dean knows how to play well, and he smears a look of pure innocence on his face as he looks his father directly in the eyes.

Even with all of the evidence that contradicts Dean's reassurances, John seems satisfied after a while, and he steers Dean off the sidewalk and toward the hotel. Dean stumbles a bit, and he's not sure if it's from relief or the weakness of extreme hunger. His dad clasps his shoulder and supports him until he's steady again.

"I tried to call Pastor Jim," Dean says, as they both make their way through the traffic that is still heavy even at this time of night.

"Didn't get him, did you, kiddo?" John asks. Dean shakes his head as they dodge a slow moving taxi. His father's acting casual, but Dean knows that John's smart enough to pick up on the worry that his son's feeling. "Yeah, Jim's out of the country for two weeks. Didn't think to tell you, since I was only supposed to be gone overnight. I had this pegged as an easy gig. Important, but easy. Guess I was wrong."

And because John rarely, if ever, admits to being wrong, in this moment when Dean realizes that this is something his dad needs forgiveness for, he gives it.

"Did you get the fairies, Dad?" he asks. His voice is a broken croak, but if his father notices, he doesn't show it.

"You don't exactly 'get' fairies, son," John replies with surprisingly little reproach for Dean's ignorance. He smiles gently and puts a hand on his oldest son's shoulder. It steadies Dean, and John maintains the comforting contact as they reach the hotel doors. "But they won't be hurting anyone, anytime soon. I made sure of that."

Dean grins, and with something akin to happiness looks up at the eighth floor. If he squints, he thinks he can see Sammy sitting in the window and looking down at them. His smile widens, and when his eyes catch on the blinking red of the hotel sign, he almost laughs out loud.


End file.
